[He feels her eyes on him, which, in some ways, he expected. Otherwise, he might've taken the gaiter off too. But despite putting himself in this position, the lingering gaze makes him squirm a little and draw his limbs in, one hand going to cover the wound at his arm.

What is she thinking right now? What is she feeling? He doesn't see disgust. Is it the sort of awe that comes of car wrecks or surgical ingenuity? He averts his eyes. For a second, anyway.]

What...? Oh... [And now it's his turn to look down at himself.] I... don't know... I don't want to... get rid of these... they're the last signs... of being me...

[Of whoever he was.]

I hoped... someone might... recognize me... someday....